The Hardest Question
by TheMuleteer
Summary: How? How can I, for the sake of being honest, destroy everything we have? Some years after DH, Harry Potter must face his feelings for his closest friend, and find an answer to the hardest question: How can I tell her the truth? Partially 19Yrs compliant
1. The Hardest Question

Author's Note: Okay, I dunno how much sense this whole thing makes. I wrote it in the middle of the night, after sustaining a conversation that led to the "Hardest Question" herein. I'd like to think the characters are obvious in their roles, but if not, review or PM me and I'll enlighten you. This obviously takes place some time after the events of DH, but before the Epilogue.

And so, I'm afraid without any ado whatsoever, here's the first work I've completed in forever. Please enjoy "The Hardest Question"

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How?

Ever notice that the word 'how?' is always excluded from the other question groups? The way that a reporter asks "who, what, where, when, why?" but never the "how?" That people ask "what do I tell her?" or "why do I feel this way", but there's never a how involved. Maybe because the others are possibilities; for example, "why should I say that?" suggests I may or may not speak, but "how can I say that?" makes things a foregone conclusion. I guess that's why we don't use "how"; because we like to believe we are the ones in control—that we can choose to say something or not, be somewhere or not, believe something or not. Do something, or not.

Love someone, or not.

But that's a joke, it really is. Because we're not in control. We speak without control over our mouths, and say something we knew was a bad idea to say. We go places that we shouldn't, walking where angels fear to tread. We believe against common sense and traditional wisdom to the contrary.

And love is, by its very nature, uncontrollable.

So, that brings us back to the "how" point I'm trying to get at. "How" is the sixth question; it's the last one in line, and the last one we ever want to ask, least of all to ourselves.

Because, quite frankly, the answers (when there are any) are hard to take. I should know, I've been asking it of myself lately. I look in a mirror at a man I do not recognise, and I ask him, how did this happen? He has no answer. How did the way I feel about the love of my life change so much? No answer. How can I betray her in such a simple, basic manner? He has no reply. The lack of an answer to any of these questions has always troubled me. So I push other questions, ones I know are something that can be answered.

How did I start to fall for her? That one, at least, is easy. We spent a significant part of our lives with each other; it's only natural for close bonds to occur. It's only natural, also, that since we were comfortable with being emotionally and physically close, that those bonds would run deeper as time went on. Even more so, since they were the defining years of our lives, and there was rarely ever anyone else for us to turn to.

How did she become more important to me? The answer is complex. Firstly, she was there first; she's been part of my life for a longer time, and for most of that time a bigger part of it than my wife. Second, she's always been closer to me; sad, I know, but my best friend is the one I turn to when I'm in trouble, the one I talk to when I'm lost, the one I trust completely...instead of my wife. When I have a secret, I confide in her...instead of my wife. When I need advice or help, I turn to her.

Instead of my wife.

Third, it's how I think of her; lately, she hasn't simply been my friend, or my sister, both of which she's been for the longest time, but more and more lately, she's "my girl".

Fourth, and this is what gets to me the most; it's that she's the most important person in my life. It's that she completes me. It's that every spare second I have, I want to, and almost always do spend with her. It's that her smile, her laugh, her words make my heart skip more beats than is healthy and burn so hot I'm sure it'll make my shirt catch fire. It's that I'm beyond wanting to have her around, I _need_ her. It's that I need her not like a drug or a heartbeat, but like the sun or the grass; without her, my world is no longer the beautiful place she makes it. It's that the nightmares of losing her affect me so much worse than similar ones for my wife; finding my wife dead, even if it's only in my head is hard on me, and I'm not agreeable the next morning...but finding my girl dead, her arms cold, the colour gone from her soft cheeks, the light in her eyes gone forever, that dream throws me out of bed screaming, so terrified that my hands won't stop shaking.

The last question is hardest of all. Ironic that it was spawned by a question entirely different. Even though it could've been a mistake, I told this dear friend recently that there was someone catching my attention that was not my wife...someone that lingered in my thoughts and imagination far more than they should have. So, she asks, "Who is it?" And therein lies the dilemma, the question I ask myself at that very moment, the question I ask that unfamiliar man in the mirror now, and the question that will dog me to the day I die.

How can I tell her the truth?

I've never once lied to her before, but I lie to her now, and say it's an old flame of mine. She smiles and shrugs it off, saying that Cho would probably bounce around in my mind forever. I feel some relief, but so much more remorse as the conversation moves on. But in all honesty, how could I have done it? How could I tell my best friend that I think of nothing but her? How she seems to whisper in my ear all throughout the day, how I dream of her at night, and how in that moment between being awake and being asleep, I swear that she's there with me. How all I can think of is her. How much, how truly, how madly how deeply I love her?

How can I destroy everything we have...for the sake of honesty?

So I lie. So I hate myself a little bit more. So I stand in front of a mirror in the middle of the night, staring at a man I don't know anymore, and I ask him the question that the answer to is simply "you can't";

How?

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Reviews are always loved and welcomed. Enough reviews, and this thing could potentially grow from oneshot to story. Feedback is essential to authors, so please...

GIMME!!


	2. Lie to Yourself

So then, here's the next entry in this little story. Rather than the first-person retrospective that I used last time, this time around I've used a different type of perspective. This style of writing is one I picked up from the author Zayz, whose story _Make it Count_ uses the same style, which in turn was inspired by _To Love a Hero_ from the author Pantz. I dunno if I can expand this past a two-shot, but enough reviews and requests will encourage me to try.

And so, I'm afraid without any ado whatsoever...here's Chapter Two.

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Lie to yourself.

It is this simple for you; lie, because the alternative is far worse. Telling the truth would destroy everything—not just your relationship with her, but her relationship with her husband, your relationship with your wife, your relationship with her family, your entire life, and hers as well. So, in comparison, telling a simple lie should be easier. So you lie. You lie to her, you lie to everyone around you, and you lie to yourself. Over time, you'd imagine, this becomes easier. But it never does. Because you've never been dishonest in your life, and now every second you spend with her is living a lie.

Let this eat at you inside. Perhaps living with the guilt and pain of your deceit is what you need to rid yourself of this truth that longs to be free. Perhaps this truth will simply die out. Perhaps the lies and half-truths and deceptions and misdirections will eventually smother this truth out of existence. So you smother it with your words of "of course not", and "you're family to me", and "I love my wife," but oddly enough, the truth is patient. It can hold its breath for a long time, and it can most likely hold its breath longer than you can keep up your efforts to stifle it.

Keep fighting. Day after day after day, wage a battle inside yourself, trying desperately to kill this truth that so adamantly refuses to die. Slice at it with "she doesn't feel the same way." Choke it with "You have a wife." Stab at its heart with "You'd lose her if you told her the truth." Day after day after day, you will wage this battle deep inside you, trying to kill this truth, this idea.

But ideas are notoriously difficult to kill.

Learn to coexist. Decide that, after months and months and months of infighting, this idea is simply not going to go away. So stop wasting efforts to be rid of it. Try to accept, and move on with your day. Say to yourself, "I'm in love with her. Yes. Okay." Allow it to go no further; grant the thought its existence, but no more; no control over your other thoughts, your actions. Don't let it show itself when you spend an entire day with her, even though it races through your heart and boils your brain and scars your soul. Hope that the feeling will learn to coexist with your control.

Begin to despair. After two years, the unspoken words and clamoring thoughts and burning emotions are tearing you apart. Try to look at it logically. It has been six years since your days of Hogwarts and Horcruxes ended. It has been about four and-a-half years since you and Ginny moved in together. It has been three-and-a-quarter since you were engaged. It has been three since you were married. It has been two since these illogical and painful thoughts began coming up in the back of your head. You've gone to Harpies games with her, watching Ginny play with unmatched skill and talent. You've shopped at holidays and birthdays with her. You've spent so much of your life with her now that you know her as well as you know yourself. You've tried everything, everything to be rid of these emotions. You've lied about them, you've pushed at them, you've hidden them from the world. But you cannot hide them from yourself. You've tried ignoring them, you've tried ridding yourself of them, you've tried coexisting with them. You've tried everything.

Everything but telling the truth.

Deny everything. When your brother-in-law pulls you aside for a moment in his joke shop and makes a passing query, stridently deny it; of course there're no romantic feelings there, I'm living with your sister, I'm married to her—there's nothing else, George. When her parents make passing remarks about your closeness, simply pass it off as a deep friendship. When her husband asks you directly, directly ask in return if he really thinks you could betray his friendship and hers with something like that.

When she asks you, pause.

Give in. When she presses at you, knowing you're being untruthful, let it out. Let out how long this has gone on for. Let out your feelings for her, feelings that have burned and boiled and simmered for so long. Let out the two-year-old thoughts of being with her. Let out the aching emotions that you've longed to share with her. Let out everything. Let her take it, all of it, right there in one go.

Get floored.

Not by a fist that hits you in the jaw. Not by her screams of betrayal and berates and bereavement. Not by her tearful response of "I'm sorry" that shatters your heart and soul. Not by her leaping embrace from a run into your awaiting arms, tight and needing. Not by her passionate kiss, warm and loving and deep and everything you imagined.

By her simple response. "Okay. Do...do you want to try?"

Stop lying to yourself.

Nod your response.

Embrace warmly.

Kiss softly.

And try.

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A review is like a piece of candy; one makes a person happy, but lots of them are pure bliss. Please, let's go for the latter, eh? I've had over 130 hits on this story, but only 3 reviews so far. Please, send 'em in; good, bad, I don't mind, so long as I get feedback. I honestly don't hope my fellow authors and readers are so lazy that they can't take two minutes to tell a fellow spirit what they think of the work presented.


	3. The Written Word

So, ladies, gentlemen, I present to you, after week's worth of muse tormenting and getting used to another unusual style of writing, the third chapter: "The Written Word."

For this chapter, I've used a style that (while probably originated from elsewhere, most likely offsite) I first saw used by the author Limelight in the story "The Not Quite Love Letters." If this style seems unusual to you (or if you kinda fancy it) I recommend Lime's story to you; not only is it funnier than mine, it also covers a far broader spectrum of written communication.

Now, then, enough wordy Author Notes. Please, enjoy "The Written Word."

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**From the Office of the Commissioner****,**** Auror Command****,**** Department of Magical Law Enforcement**

**Attention****:**** The American Ministry has requested British Aurors for training their newly formed United States Magical Military Corps****.**** Any Aurors with War experience are especially desired****.**** Volunteers report to Auror Commissioner Spinnet for details****. **

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_**Commissioner Spinnet,**_

_**It would be my pleasure to represent Queen and country in this USMMC programme as advertised by the office. I have always desired to visit the American continent, and to get a taste of their culture. In addition, I think it safe to say that there are scant few in the office with more war experience than I, making me a very logical choice for this assignment. I, of course, will yield to your superior judgment in this matter whatever it may be, and I eagerly await your reply.**_

_**Yours,**_

_**Harry James Potter**_

_**PS: If you could word any sort of affirmative to this letter as a directive, it would be much appreciated. See, I could do with a small bit of time off from the Lady Potter, though I could never tell her I want some time to myself (Alicia, I would imagine that you recall sending MediWizards to the Burrow to swap back George's arms and legs after he so unwisely suggested to Ginny's face that she was a bit too eager to move in with me.) I would appreciate your assistance in this matter beyond measure, and hope to hear from you soon, Cap.**_

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Inter-Office Memo

To: Department of Magical Law Enforcement Chief, Percival Weasley

From: Deputy Chief of Litigation, Hermione Weasley

Percy—

I understand that the American Ministry's Department of Justice wants to borrow a lawyer from us, since their Court denied our mutual request for extradition of a British Veela, one Sienna Miller to be tried here at home for her crimes of sedition and treason, among her other...less mentionable excursions against the law. Considering how well-versed I am with Ms. Miller's case, I believe that I could be of great service to our American brethren in their Capital. With your approval, I'd like to volunteer my assistance to the Americans, and help in their espionage case against Ms. Miller. Let me know as soon as possible, please?

Hermione

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_**Auror Potter,**_

_**It has been brought to my attention that the American Ministry is in need of skilled combatants to train their newly-formed United States Magical Military Corps. As you not only have formidable field experience, but also have a record of being an excellent teacher, both during your school years, and with your less-skilled Auror comrades, I am assigning you to the American Capital to train this USMMC. Arrangements have been made for you to own a fairly comfortable apartment in downtown Philadelphia, not far from the Capitol Tower.**_

_**And while I understand that this may be intensely distasteful to you and the Mrs. Potter, I would like to point out to you that a year in America will be sufficient political justification for appointing you to Division Chief of one of the four nations of Britain, and within three years of that, Commissioner of the Department (as it is my understanding that Alicia wishes to eventually return to the Quidditch field, or perhaps some other aspect of life with a mutual acquaintance of yours, one Oliver Wood). That is instrumental to the policy changes and overhauls that you and I have been working towards for the past six years. **_

_**A plane ticket is enclosed with this letter (I know that you'd sooner fly over yourself, but not even your beloved Firebolt will make a cross-Atlantic trip in one piece with the severe weather between the coasts). You'll leave tonight. Please phone to confirm your arrival in Philadelphia (whatever time it is, I'll be up; consequence of the job). It will probably be around 11:00 at night when you arrive, but considering it is an American airline you'll be using, I'd allow an extra hour on that time if I were you.**_

_**Good luck on your assignment, Harry.**_

_**Kingsley Shacklebolt**_

_**Minister for Magic**_

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**NSA TRANSCRIPTS (Appropriated by the Agency of Magical Intelligence)**

**Transcript: Tapped Phone Conversation #5.5/Apple/26**

**The following is a transcript of a telephone call made at 0341 Zulu Time monitored by Echelon. The conversation is between two unregistered numbers, one in London, the other in Philadelphia. The Philadelphia number appears to be a female, related in some way to the ****male in London. As neither appears in any database available to Echelon for comparison, the two are referred to herein by their respective cities.**

Philadelphia: "Hey, Percy. We're here."

London: "Clearly."

Philadelphia: "Harry was going to call Kingsley, but he fell asleep on the couch a few seconds after we walked in the door. Since I don't have Kingsley's number, I figured I'd call you, ask you to let him know we arrived safe and sound."

London: "Back up a moment, Hermione. You are sharing a room with Harry?"

Philadelphia: "Sharing an apartment, actually. Since I'll be in country at least eight months for the Miller Trial, and he'll be here all year with the USMC, he offered his spare room."

London: "Hermione..."

Philadelphia: "What, Percy? It's not like we haven't been in close quarters on our own before. We're adults this time, too."

London: "Yes, that's what concerns me."

Philadelphia: "What?"

London: "You both are adults. You know better. You know how this looks."

Philadelphia: "Percy..."

London: "Hermione, I know. But the rest of the family doesn't seem to, and George and Bill are awfully suspicious."

Philadelphia: "Percy, why'd they come to you?"

London: "They...they're aware I have contacts in Philadelphia. They want me to spy on you, pretty much. They wouldn't do it anytime or anywhere where Ginny or Ron or our parents would hear of it, so they must not have anything damning. Beyond the Weasley gut instinct."

Philadelphia: "..."

London: "Hermione?"

Philadelphia: "Percy, what'd you say?"

London: "...I told them to doss off. I...told them that spying on my own family would be beyond the pale even for me, and it was...alarming to me that it wasn't beyond them. I told them that it was sickening that they had so little faith in you two, and sad that they had so little faith in Ron and Ginny's relationships with you."

Philadelphia: "...Thank you, Percy."

London: "I'd like to think you two would do the same for me, were there any doubts about me and Audrey."

Philadelphia: "Of course."

London: "..."

Philadelphia: "...Percy?"

London: "I said 'I know', didn't I, Hermione?"

Philadelphia: "..."

London: "Get some sleep. You've got a long eight months ahead of you. Good night, Hermione."

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_United States Magical Military Corps, Communiqué dated September 12, 2003_

_To: Harry Potter, Commander USMMC, British Liaison Officer _

_From: Alexander Hastings, Colonel USMMC_

_Commander Potter,_

_On the Nineteenth of the month, there is a live-fire war game scheduled, which the commanding officers of the Corps (myself included) plan to use in order to determine the best soldiers we have in out forces. Simply put, the President has requested a Special Forces unit of sorts to be formed from the best of our men (something we wish for you to judge with the rest of us on the Nineteenth). These War-Mages would be to receive as much instruction from you as is possible. It would be greatly appreciated if you could prolong your stay past your original date of Christmas, at least until July of next year._

_Colonel Hastings_

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**Kiddo—**

**I think that letter, while maddening, will be enough to keep your wife off your case to "come home" for some time, at least. Your boss, Miss Spinnet informed me that you might like an "official reason" to stay on a while longer.**

**I gather that charming brunette you introduced me to when we met isn't actually your wife, is she?**

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_United States Magical Military Corps, Communiqué dated September 13, 2003_

_To: Alexander Hastings, Colonel USMMC_

_From: Harry Potter, Commander USMMC, British Liaison Officer_

_Colonel Hastings,_

_On the Nineteenth of the month, I am unavoidably detained by extenuating circumstances, _

_and therefore will be unable to attend the war game. I offer Command my sincerest apologies, and hope that the game goes well for all involved._

_Commander Potter_

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**Hastings—**

**You've got some nerve to ask me to do business on the Nineteenth when you know 'Mione and I are going to Virginia Beach for the day. We came to the US with an understanding that there would be any and all allowances given for us to enjoy time together.**

**And, rhetorical or otherwise, the answer to your question...**

**...**

**No, she's not.**

**Doesn't change anything. Doesn't change that I love her, or that I live with her, or anything else at all.**

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**NSA TRANSCRIPTS (Appropriated by the Agency of Magical Intelligence)**

**Transcript: Tapped Phone Conversation #1208/Kumquat/1138**

**The following is a transcript of a telephone call made at 1530 Zulu Time monitored by Echelon. The conversation is between two unregistered numbers, one in London, the other in Philadelphia. The Philadelphia number appears to be a female, related in some way to the male in London. Both have been recorded in previous monitored conversations, but no names mentioned have been confirmed, so the two are still referred to herein by their respective cities.**

Philadelphia: "Hey, Percy. How're things?"

London: "Fairly well, Hermione. Audrey and I are planning on making a trip to see you two sometime later this month."

Philadelphia: "Sounds great, Percy. Um, Percy...does she know..."

London: "Yeah, she knows. She's alright with it."

Philadelphia: "..."

London: "So am I, Hermione."

Philadelphia: "...Thank you, Percy."

London: "How're things on your end, Hermione?"

Philadelphia: "We're doing well. We spent the day on Virginia Beach yesterday, and in three days, we're planning on spending the day touring the countryside. It's absolutely beautiful here, Percy, you and Audrey will love it."

London: "...Look, Hermione, I hesitate to ask, but..."

Philadelphia: "We're being careful, Percy. Nothing is going to happen."

London: "You say that now, but all I'm seeing and hearing is Fred and George saying 'Of course, Mum, we won't antagonize Umbridge. We know better than to get a vindictive Ministry official angry at us.' Remember how that one turned out?"

Philadelphia: "Percy..."

London: "It's okay, Hermione, I have faith in you. I just don't want you to end up in danger like the Twins did...or worse."

Philadelphia: "Thanks."

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_Diary, 4__th__ November, 2003_

_How exactly does one write in these things? I don't know about other people, but I have never understood writing in a diary. First of all, how are you to write? As if addressing it to another being, like these 'Dear Diary' stereotypes I hear? If so, gag me. Please. And if not as a being, then as some kind of a log? Honestly, I'm a witch, not a ship's captain. But I guess the way I'm writing now, as a stream of consciousness will work alright._

_It also occurs to me that this is sort of dangerous. Knowing what I know and living the life I am, having a diary and being honest in documenting everything of my life could get me into serious trouble. So why am I doing this anyway—blatantly tempting Fate to place this in the hands of someone whom I don't want to ever see this thing? Not like I want a family member to find it someday, like my children or grandchildren...or worse, Ron._

_Harry, though..._

_Nonsense. Harry already knows what I know, what I see, where I go, how I feel. Not just as my friend and...more...but because he's my conscience. The angel on my right shoulder. The voice of my heart and soul has jet-black hair and emeralds for eyes._

_The past three months have been a dream come true here in America. When this was termed the "Land of Opportunity", they didn't have the slightest idea, I wager. Looking back now, I don't know why I married Ron instead of Harry. Don't get me wrong—Ron loves me, and I do love him. But Harry..._

_Harry's in love with me. He's not afraid to be outspoken about it, either. He holds my hand when we walk in the parks. He's content to spend an afternoon laying in a field with me, just talking, or just looking at me. On a regular basis, he sends me flowers with notes saying sweet little nothings. It makes me quite the unusual item in One Liberty Place. Apparently, the gestures tend to die off after a few weeks with most other people. Three months running, Harry's never stopped._

_Harry's in love with me..._

_And I'm in love with him._

* * *

**Happy Christmas, Harry!**

**Look, sweetheart, I understand that the work is keeping you until about June. I'll wait as long as you want or need me to.**

**But please, my friend, my love... hurry home.**

**Give Hermione my love, and remind her I'll hold her responsible if you're a stick again when you both come back.**

**Yours,**

**Ginevra**

* * *

Journal

20 January 2004

It has been almost six months since I've been home. Six months since I've seen my co-workers, my friends, my family.

My Ginny.

But I haven't missed any of them. Not really. How can I, when I truly feel free for the first time in...I don't know how long. Here with Hermione, everything...everything is simple. Clear.

Beautiful.

Training with the War-Mages is going even better than anticipated. They pick up the fundamentals of casting with speed, accuracy, and clarity. Since they were all required to pass training via a branch of the US Armed Forces, and qualify for the Special Forces units of their respective branch, they're also all in peak condition, and brilliant tacticians. Sometimes, their capabilities scare even me a little. With how well they're doing, it may be possible for us to go home by May.

I sincerely hope something changes.

Maybe I'm horrible for not wanting to go home to my job, my family, my wife. Maybe I'm scum because I'm an ocean away, and my family thinks I'm working and rooming with my friend, when I'm working and having a passionate affair with my best friend, my sister-in-law.

I don't care.

I'm happy. For the first time in seven years, I'm truly happy. The world can't begrudge me that after all it's taken from me.

It won't take me away from this.

* * *

_Diary, 15__th__ February, 2004_

_Despite the breathtaking six months Harry and I have shared, despite the utterly incredible day yesterday, and despite that we have at least two or three months left, I find my mind increasingly wandering to the day that we leave, the day we step out of this Heaven and return to reality. I find my mind wandering to misery. Really, I shouldn't. Especially not after yesterday. Yesterday was...so beautiful. So touching. So heartfelt. So heartwarming, and so heartbreaking all at once._

_For Valentine's Day, we both sent minor tokens to Ron and Ginny, and received them in return. _

_For me, he did more. So much more. At seven o'clock, when I got home, the first thing I noticed was that dinner was waiting. I could smell the food, and I don't know what it was he did with it, but the smell of the food evoked nothing so much as memories of Hogwarts. He knew how much I loved the place, how much I hope to someday return there, educate students and prepare them __for the brave new world our friends and family are trying to craft. But he didn't stop there. No, not Harry._

_Not my Harry._

_After dinner, a trail of Hershey's chocolate kisses appeared, that seemed to lead off into the apartment. He just smiled and gestured for me to follow it. Wary and arch smile on my face, I did. First, it led to the shower, where the kisses formed themselves into arrows, all pointing straight inside the shower. I didn't understand, but I got in. Then the showerhead came on...and rose petals came out. It felt like being embraced by silk, only with love and beauty, too. Then the door opened, and the arrows marched out a line to the bedroom. I followed them as they led me to the bed. On it, there was a note. This is what it read: "__Now that I have kissed the ground you walk upon and showered you with roses, will you give me the one thing that I desire?__" I looked up, and there he was, all warm and loving and close and Harry, and he asked me for only one thing:_

"_Will you stay with me?"_

_Oh, God, how my heart broke. He said this so honestly, so passionate, so needing. As if I was the only thing in the world that he could ever need, ever want. So, even though I knew he wanted me, and he wanted me to say what I wanted to, I knew also that I couldn't. That we couldn't. That this would have to return to the shadows of our hearts when we returned home._

_But I supposed that in those shadows, he'd always be there. He'd be with me not only whenever I called on him, but wherever I go. He'll always be with me, and I'll be with him. I'll always stay with him, in one form or another, so that's the answer I gave him:_

"_For always."_

* * *

_Diary, 22__nd__ April, 2004_

_We're home._

_Okay, that isn't true. This isn't home. Not anymore. Home is a two-bedroom apartment in downtown Philadelphia that is only five minutes from One Liberty Place. Home is that small apartment in a country a thousand miles away. Home is the couch we shared chatting up Colonel Hastings and his wife. Home is that kitchen where we danced our unique dance of partners when we cooked together for Percy and Audrey. Home is the queen-size bed that I shared with Harry. Home is no longer Britain. No longer the house my husband inhabits. I don't know that it ever was, but it definitely isn't now._

_We came back when we got word from the family. Word that when Harry read it made him pale and look like he did that day almost ten years ago in the Final Task. Word that made silent tears run down his face as they did when Dumbledore died._

_Word that Ginny had a baby._

_His._

_James Sirius Potter. The child doesn't just look like him or seem like him, the boy is exactly him. Down to the mop of unruly black hair and emerald eyes. __She kept the pregnancy from him because she wanted him to be able to focus on his job, and not try to leave it for her or James. I appreciate it, in a way, but every time I remember that Harry has a son, it isn't with me, and I can never have a child with him. Never._

_Ever._

* * *

_Harry,_

_Without any ado, I need to do some work, and I need you to come. A Floo conversation could be overheard, so we need to see each other. Excellent information has come in that I need to tell you, pertaining the insane Death Eater-turned terrorist Komedi. Now that we have this, we need to act on immediately if we wish to succeed in catching this creature without tact. Recent intelligence suggested he was in Oslo. Unfortunately, he escaped us, and fled, it seems, to an assistant's home identified only by being called "Bub." Letting him escape again is not possible. _

_My interest in stopping him is, according to friends in the office, palpable. Even one chance at locking him up makes this world that much safer for your tot. Also, hopefully, our tot. Doing so would be a boon to the office also. Can we meet, then, and try to catch this man we once knew as Jack? 17 years in Azkaban might help his mind._

_As it's difficult for our schedules to mesh, I spoke with friends in the mes__s__. Ursula told me of something she'd done with a source in Stockholm. Events meant that they needed to wait. As you can guess, though, they didn't, so they met in a club they both liked—which we can duplicate, you and I. Luck seems to hate us both so, as the regional Chief for Auror Command in Scotland, by your job contract, while in Glasgow, while on-duty, you cannot leave. Don't read too much into this, though, I could be wrong...though we'll see when I'm in Scotland. Refer to the letter I wrote to you in April of our last year for details._

_Hermione_

* * *

_April 1997_

_Harry—_

_If I have referred to this letter now or anytime in the future, then one or more of us is in danger. The phrase "Without any ado" will start a method of code delivery I've worked out where the first and last letter of every sentence is part of a code word or phrase. When I refer to this letter, I'm signifying the end of the code. Numbers count as a single letter, so if I say "37 hallways," I mean 37S for whatever I refer to beforehand, be it a dock or storage container, or whatever._

_Here's hoping you never have to look at this thing._

_Hermione_

* * *

Journal

May 5th, 2004

Received message from Hermione earlier today that referred to a letter she wrote me seven years ago. It, in turn, establishes a code for delivering alerts, information, or warnings. She said with it this:

WE ARE IN TROUBLE.

MEET AT DOCK 17D.

ASSUME TAILED.

Meeting at the dock, she led me to a mall in downtown Glasgow, where she weaved this incredibly insane path through the mall's stores and crowds, and finally back into maintenance hallways and into a theatre.

All this to ensure we weren't followed.

I asked what she had to tell me was so terrible that it meant that we'd need to use ridiculously old coding and Muggle tail-shaking tactics and then hide in a place that Magical folk would overlook naturally (Theatres are a blind spot that I MUST correct in Auror training as soon as possible). Then she told me.

Hermione's pregnant.

* * *

A/N: Alright, alright; a bit contrived, yes, especially for those who pay attention to the HP timeline. And yes, I probably should not use old episodes of "Alias" as inspiration to deliver a message in the story. So, by all means, tell me off (or, alternately, congratulate me on a job well done) in a review.

Ever heard of those? Reviews? They're these short notes that fellow authors send to one another on this site using that handy box in the lower-left corner of the screen. Seriously, you bums, I get a LOT of hits on this story, and next to no reviews. Is it that bloody difficult for you ponces to write two sentences about your sentiments and thoughts? If so, you do not belong on this site.

So, please, take a hint, and review!


	4. Crossroads

Author's Note: Alrighty, then. Here's chapter four, entitled "Crossroads." This time the writing style is something originally used (as far as I know, anyway) by Matthew Stover in _Revenge of the Sith_. Be kind and tell me how this works, please?

And so, without and ado whatsoever, here is Crossroads.

* * *

This is what it is to be Harry Potter, at his crossroads, right now:

You're terrified.

This is not much better than being utterly devastated as you were moments ago, and when full realisation of your circumstances sinks in, you are terrified, devastated, and more.

Facing Voldemort five times within seven years, the Death Eaters, performing in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, confronting Dementors, fighting a Basilisk, the Hall of Prophecies, hunting the Horcruxes, proposing to Ginny, facing her brothers afterwards, none of these absolutely frightening events can match up. These horrifying things of the past pale to utter insignificance in light of the four words Hermione—Hermione Granger, your best friend, your comrade, your lover, your Aphrodite, your anchor, your rock, the love of your life—has just said to you. She made you follow her through the theatre into the lobby, where she told you:

"I'm pregnant."

Your devastation comes at these two words. The nine months you had with her in America were the best days of your life. And you thought that they were the best of her life, too. She told you that every day, didn't she? That she never wanted to leave you? That she was yours, "for always"? And yet, it seems to have meant so little to her that she's easily slipped back into life with Ron, and she's gotten pregnant now.

Moments later, your mind slaps itself about, not only for your self-pity, but also for being so selfish that you want her all to yourself. If she's able to return to her life with Ron, and be happy, then you shouldn't begrudge her that happiness. Yet you do. You should want her to be happy. Yet you don't. Your mind and heart and soul are shattering all at once, making you want nothing more than to fall to your knees and cry out loud. Yet you don't. You want to pull her to you, and never let go.

Yet you don't.

For then, seconds or days later, you're not sure which, she adds two more words.

"It's yours."

Then, in an instant, the devastation clears. The wreckage of your soul vanishes, and there is one clear, defining emotion.

Joy.

You're having a baby—with Hermione. The one thing both of you wanted, dreamed about, talked about as a fond shared daydream, it isn't just fantasy anymore, it's a reality. It's your reality. You feel ten years fall off your shoulders as nothing so much as an almost...childish glee...enters you, and you see 'Mione standing there, beautiful, sweet and affectionate, her lips forming a smile as she sees the happy boy she fell in love with break out of the fractured man she loved as a stand-in. You want nothing so much as to embrace her, pull her to you, and never let go...but this time, it's in purest delight and cheer, not sadness and desolation. Your dream is reality.

Reality...

And then the desolation returns.

She is married. Not to you. You are married. Not to her. You have a child already. Not with her.

Your wife will be devastated.

Her family will react...badly, to say the least.

Her husband...you don't know what he'll do.

This is where the terror enters. Not really for you (though the thought of Ron attacking you with the intent of killing you for this merits serious consideration) but for your love and unborn child. You've never known Ron to be violently angry, not even when given cause and opening. Of course, that was when you were children. Not when you slept with his wife. Not when he knew as many curses as you. Granted, he took your relationship with Ginny rather well, but then again...

Vastly different circumstances.

Now you see the trouble she spoke of. You can't imagine what she's going through, but you can imagine it's worse than this. So it is no shock to you when she slips into your arms, wraps her arms around your back, and tries valiantly to merge her body into yours. After shuddering in your embrace (she never cries, you notice dimly, only shakes) for untold minutes or months, she looks up at you, tears only now starting to form in her chocolate eyes, and she asks you a question:

"What are we going to do?"

You don't know.

For the life of you, you don't know.

But you're sure gonna try. Because you can do this. You know it. The two of you can do this. You can overcome, you can evade, you can disguise, you can do anything you need to. Anything, to keep your love alive. Anything to keep your daughter safe. You say all this to her.

For a moment, you wonder at that, as does she; your certainty that you have a daughter. You just...know. You can't explain the knowledge, but it's there just the same...father's intuition, you suppose.

So you'll lie. In the morning, you'll be surprised and joyful when she and Ron tell you and Ginny they're pregnant. You'll elbow Gin when she bugs Ron about apparently being pregnant as well, under that statement. You'll love your niece...or nephew...when they enter the world as that; your niece.

Or nephew.

You'll love Hermione as your best friend and confidante. You'll continue to love her with all your heart, and never show it. But she'll know.

And that's enough for you.

For now, that is enough.

This is what it is to be Harry Potter, at his crossroads.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, as with the last chapter's note, I find myself on a loop; PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!! I love having this story put on favorites and alerts, but I desperately want to hear feedback.

Also, I want to know what people think of this format. Good? Bad? Shamelessly stolen? (For which I will quote one of my favorite characters: "Good writers borrow from others. Great writers steal from them outright."

So, one more time, PLEASE REVIEW!!


	5. Twelve Years After

Author's Notes: Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Here is Chapter Five, the final chapter I have for this story. Yes, I know, I can see the many tears of sadness at the end of this story...oh shut up, you know you want more than five chapters. You KNOW.

Anyways, here it is. No special style, just the end. I tried to write in the style of the Supreme and Most Glorious Overlord of All That is Holy and Good, Ms. Jo Rowling, though with how much success I do not know. Before you ask me, yes, I did directly lift some of the writing from the Epilogue of Deathly Hallows. So sue me. Since the Supreme Overlord will probably never see this...or, if you do, Your Excellency, I hope you'll enjoy and appreciate this enough to not sue the baggy Y-fronts off me.

I'll conserve time by begging for reviews right here (it also makes the end to the story much cleaner to not have sloppy notes at the end, I think). So, if any of you could drop a review--Your Most Brilliant and Majestic Radiance, if you're reading this, it would be an honour to hear your thoughts. But since she probably won't read it, I suppose the rest of you can suffice instead.

Thanks very much to all of you who read this all the way through. And if any of you actually ARE a little sad at the story's ending so soon, consider my last three words herein. Now, then, please enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Five

Twelve Years After

* * *

"Where are they?" asked Albus anxiously, peering at the hazy forms they passed as they made their way down the platform.

"We'll find them," said Ginny reassuringly.

But the vapour was dense, and it was difficult to make out anybody's faces. Detached from their owners, voices sounded unnaturally loud. Harry thought he heard Percy discoursing quite loudly on broomstick regulations, and was quite glad of the excuse not to stop and say hello...

"I think that's them, Al," said Ginny suddenly.

A group of four people emerged from the mist, standing alongside the very last carriage. Their faces only came into focus when Harry, Ginny, Lily, and Albus had drawn right up to them.

"Hi," said Albus, sounding immensely relieved.

Rose, who was already wearing her brand-new Hogwarts robes, beamed at him.

"Parked all right, then?" Ron asked Harry. "I did. Hermione didn't believe I could pass a Muggle driving test, did you? She thought I'd have to Confund the examiner."

"No, I didn't," said Hermione. "I had complete faith in you."

As Ron confided in Harry that he in fact _did_ Confund the man, Harry spared a glance at Hermione, who also took the slightest pause from her conversation with Rose about the train and the boats that awaited her, to meet his eyes with a soft smile. Somehow, he imagined, he'd never figure out how she managed to convey everything she felt in a simple look.

Then again, he pointed out to himself, she had twelve years of practice.

Though the first nine months had been a learning experience in how to keep their emotions out of sight and out of mind, the two would meet every now and again and revel in the bond they shared together. They learned to live for the present, because the future was simply too complex—and sometimes too frightening—to contemplate.

When Harry heard Rose was being born, Ron had actually been in Italy on assignment. Before leaving, he had received every assurance imaginable from the family doctor that the chances of the child coming prematurely were astronomical with the magical medicines available, he had still asked Harry to be there should anything happen, to be there for Hermione if he couldn't. In that delivery room in St. Mungo's, Harry had gripped her hand firmly and warmly, whispering in her ear all sorts of endearments and encouragements and did everything he could to keep her from thinking about what would come next. When her first child came into the world, there was a moment, one single, solitary, eternal moment where she and Harry looked into one another's eyes and felt the purest love coursing through their hearts. But with the child out, he and Hermione both were forced to leave that perfect moment, and face their fears: if the child didn't look _just_ right, if there was even the _slightest_ hint of Harry in it...

Harry gasped when he saw his daughter. She was so small, so fragile, so incredibly beautiful...and so exactly like her mother. Down to the beautiful eyes and shape of her face. Their worst fear behind them, Harry and Hermione had spent infinite seconds or hours or years together, him sitting with her in the hospital bed, enjoying what would probably be their last free moments together until Death came to greet them like old friends as it did Ignotus so many 

centuries before them and they departed this life.

The following eleven years were, to say the least interesting. Meeting once or twice a month, the two would take solace in each other, and privately rejoice over how amazing and fantastic their daughter had become...though the first time that she displayed accidental magic, both parents had received quite a scare: the sheer power the diminutive girl had put out shrieked (to them, anyhow) that she had fully inherited Harry's magic and poor temper. Ron, however, was entirely convinced that it was a matter of generational balancing; Hermione was so good at controlling her magic and temper that her daughter simply _had_ to be a foil to her mother in that respect.

Harry loved his daughter dearly, and despite her being his "niece," he treated her as a daughter, and—because of his innately loving nature—he also treated his other nieces and nephews with the same care and affection as he would his own children. Rose became quite fond of him, too, and Ron had expressed on more than one occasion that he envied Harry's closeness to Rose, though he was glad the girl found someone to trust and confide in so completely...especially since this someone knew exactly which secrets to tell her parents (like the fact that she was accidentally responsible for putting James' ears on backwards after he had harassed her while she was reading once too often) and which to only tell Hermione (like how she felt closer to him, more daughter-like to him, than she did to Ron) and which to keep to himself entirely.

In the end, the way to keep going on with their lives while still loving one another was relatively simple for them. They accepted, wholeheartedly, that they loved each other, and moved on, discovering the difference between loving someone, and being in love with them. They learned to love the other while also being in love with their spouses, and in this they learned to move on and make separate families of their own.

After Albus and Rose boarded, the train began to move, and Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement, and his daughter's face, as she did not look back at her family, but forwards, to the track, to Hogwarts, and beyond. Then she did glance back, if only for a moment, and waved with Albus. Harry kept smiling and waving, even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his children glide away from him...

The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.

"He'll be all right," murmured Ginny.

As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absentmindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.

"I know he will."

And as he left with his wife and youngest child, he spared a last glance at Hermione, who looked back, and smiled, and waved goodbye. He waved as well, and they parted once more, continuing their silent dance around the obstacles of the world around them from that day to eternity.

To say "all was well" would be rather inaccurate for the two. It wasn't the storybook ending that they dreamed of, but it was still a story. Still their story. And as for the ending of their story, they held solace in their knowledge that death was by no means an end.

Nothing ever ends.


End file.
